


The Birthday Card

by orphan_account



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Alcohol, First Dates, Flirting, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much to his surprise, Devon gets asked out by one of his older brother's friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Birthday Card

* * *

Peter Vanderkaay sends him a birthday card when he turns twenty one. It’s nothing fancy; just “Happy Birthday” spelled out in glittery blue letters on the front and a scribble of slanted handwriting on the otherwise blank inside. All it says is this:

_Stop by if you get the chance. I’ll buy you a drink._

_-Peter_

There is a business card in the envelope confirming a dinner reservation for two at the latest and greatest culinary hotspot in Gainesville, Dink’s Metropolitan Eatery, at seven o’clock the very next night. Devon’s impressed to say the least. Ryan has been trying to get reservations at that very same restaurant for weeks now and even he couldn't swing it, not even after flashing his signature smile and a gold medal.

Devon reads Peter’s writing about a thousand times in a few seconds, feels the excitement build up inside his body until he’s forced to hold the card close to his chest and have a bit of a girl-ish freakout complete with a high pitched squeal and a few jumps up and down. Peter is the only one of Ryan’s friends who has ever paid attention to Devon. But then again, Peter’s never been like all of Ryan’s other friends.

Peter is quiet and thoughtful where Ryan’s other friends are loud and obnoxious. Peter barely talks and when he does talk it’s about things that Devon rarely hears people his age talking about. Peter can go on and on about architecture and books with more than one hundred pages and bands that actually play their own instruments.

He doesn’t listen to Lil Wayne.

He doesn’t wear his pants baggy.

He doesn’t wear grillz or outrageous sneakers.

What Peter does do is hang out in coffee houses that host poetry slams and clubs that have open-mic night. He also cooks for himself and not just in the Ramen Noodle cups in the microwave way most single guys do; no, Peter actually owns cookbooks and follows recipes.

And Peter has a library card. Devon’s been living in Gainesville for three years now and he doesn’t even have one. Hell, he doesn’t even know where the library _is_.

Devon’s excitement soon grows so great that he has to tell someone or he’ll explode, so he calls Brandon. “His head is shaped like a shoebox,” is all his little brother says after Devon basically word-vomits his praise for everything Peter Vanderkaay.

“It is not!” Devon counters. “It’s just a little.... uh-”

“Rectangular?” Brandon snickers.

“Oh God, why did I even call you?” Devon bemoans.

“Because you know the moment Ryan finds out about this he’ll cockblock you for the indefinite and unforeseeable future.”

“Oh, yeah” Devon says, scratching his head. “There’s always that.”

\--

Devon spends the next twenty four hours running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off, trying to get everything perfect for his meet up with Peter. He goes and gets a haircut and a shave, despite the fact that he barely has any facial hair to begin with, and then goes shopping for something to wear. He settles on a nice pair of dark wash denim jeans, a black button down shirt, and a brand new pair of size eleven oxfords shined to perfection. He arrives at the restaurant at seven o’clock on the dot, sidles nervously up to the hostess’s booth. The hostess looks up from the touch screen monitor that serves as the reservation log and smiles.

“Good evening, Mr. Lochte,” she says sweetly, “Mr. Vanderkaay is expecting you so if you’d just come with me please.” She grabs two menus from her little hostess station and motions for him to follow her as she makes her way through the foyer. The hostess then leads Devon to the back of the dining room to where Peter is waiting for him at a private table. He stands up as Devon approaches the table much in the way a man would do for a lady back when chivalry was not dead, buried, and slowly rotting away into nothingness.

“Thank you, Teresa,” Peter says to the hostess as he steps over to Devon’s side of the table and pulls his chair out for him. Devon blushes and sits down. Peter takes the menus from the hostess, says, “We’ll be ready to order in a few minutes,” and sits down as well.

“This place is amazing,” Devon says as he looks around, admiring the vaulted ceilings and posh light fixtures. “How did you even get reservations? Ryan’s been trying practically every night since it opened.”

“It helps when you know the owner.” Peter smiles.

“Who’s the owner?” Devon asks quizzically.

“I am,” Peter says proudly. He spreads out his hands, says “Every spoon, every wine glass, every bottle of liquor behind the bar.... it’s all mine.”

“No wonder Ryan couldn’t get reservations,” Devon snickers. “You have no idea how pissed he’s been about that. I’ve had to listen to him bitching and moaning for weeks.”

“Yeah, well he egged my house as a ‘ _Welcome To Florida_ ’ gift” Peter makes little quotations in the air with his fingers. “Then he got a bunch of those giant inflatable penises they sell for bachelorette parties and strung them up in the tree in my front yard like they were Christmas lights.”

“And of course you swore revenge,” Devon concludes, leaving out the part where he actually helped Ryan with the prank which the older Lochte had dubbed ‘Operation Boner’.

“It’s not revenge when it’s deserved,” Peter intones wisely.”It’s more like retribution.”

Devon nods, says, “After a lifetime of living with Ryan I’d have to agree with you.”

“I think we’ve spent enough of our time together talking about your brother,” Peter smirks, fingers steepled in front of him and elbows on the edge of the table. “I think our time will be better spent with me teaching you the fine differences between Chardonnay and Merlot.”

“And those are....?” Devon trails off.

“Types of wine,” Peter supplies.

“I gotta be honest. I kinda feel like a total idiot right now.” Devon confesses. “I’m so nervous that I’m sweating like a pig, my hands are shaking so much I don’t think I could even grasp a spoon without dropping it, and my feet hurt cause I bought new shoes and I didn’t give myself enough time to break them in.” Devon takes in a big gulp of air at the end of his miniature tirade, embarrassed blush swathed across his cheekbones.

Peter sits quiet for a moment, then bursts into an uproarious laughter. “Oh, Devon,” he sighs, shaking his head, “I’m going to teach you so many things tonight.”

“What kind of things?” Devon asks curiously, his embarrassment fading a bit.

“First, I’ll teach you about wine,” Peter smirks. “And later.... well, that’s when I’ll teach you about the things people do after drinking too much wine.”

“So you’re gonna get me drunk and defile me?” Devon queries teasingly.

“Damn right, I am,” Peter answers.


End file.
